


Homecoming

by poly_m



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poly_m/pseuds/poly_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Tully, trapped in the Frey dungeons after his wedding, suffers from sickness and grief. But his home may not be as far and unreachable as he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

Edmure x Roslin - english

¤¤¤

He cracked his fingers to rid them of their numbness. Humidity was penetrating each of his articulations. The dampness warmed the cell's air during the day but it wasn't enough to make the ice-cold night wind that seeped in through the loophole bearable. The blood was constantly leaving his members' extremities, and he spent his days warming them up - it's not like he had anything better to do anyway.

Family. Duty. Honor.  
He had lost all of that in one night.

Edmure was starting to lose track of the time. He had tried to pay attention, but hunger and exhaustion were making him so drowsy and the days were mixing up. Still, he was pretty sure he had been trapped in the Twins for approximately one month.  
He knew of that because his wife had been visiting him regularly, once every two days. He had seen her around ten times since; though it had taken her one week to come to him, after the wedding.

It had been hard to recognize her the first time. Without her beautiful bridal garments, her features were so bland that she did not seem any different to him from the preceding servants that brought him his meals. He had no idea if her serving was another sick game from Old Walder's dirty mind, or if - just like him - nobody noticed the lord's daughter's presence among the servitors. He didn't know and he didn't care enough to ask.  
He had never spoken to her again after the first time she came to him.

The first time, he had hoped. What an idiot he'd been. When he finally recognized Roslin, after she timidly entered the cell, he hoped for... well, he didn't know for what, exactly. A good piece of news, maybe, just some light or warmth in this shithole.

He had grabbed her shoulders and begged her to say something. To tell him if she had been aware, if she knew and was part of the plan.  
When he saw tears bursting out of her brown eyes, and the meal she carried falling from her frail hands, it was all the confession he needed.  
\- It's not my fault ! she sobbed. I haven't...I haven't done anything !...  
He had thrown her away from him, making her back hit the closed wooden door.  
\- Right ! he had yelled. You have done nothing ! You said nothing either ! You just trapped me while the others were making the dirty work !  
She had buried her face in her hands while she squealed :  
\- I didn't want to ! I swear I...  
\- I don't care what you wanted ! YOU DID IT !  
\- I was told to ! They forced me !...You don't know what they could have done to me !  
That was the moment where he'd grabbed her neck, slamming her head on the door.  
\- AND YOU THINK I COULDN'T DO WORSE ?!  
She had gripped his hand with her little nails by reflex, but she had not put any strenght in her resistance. Resigned, she had closed her eyes and let her tears flow down her cheeks. He had tightened his grip around the delicate neck he had earlier covered with kisses. After some long seconds, something in her patient breath and the soft touch on his hand made him release her. He'd left her breathless while he sat back in the corner he used as a bed.  
\- I'm not gonna waste my time with you, he had growled. You're not worth it.  
After gasping some air, she had answered quietly :  
\- Yes, my lord...You're right.  
When she had left, he thought he was definetely rid of her.

He had been proven wrong two days later. Again, it was hard to notice her as anything but a regular servant. She did the same dirty cleaning job as the rest of them, with the same sort of carefulness as she exchanged mutual silence with the other maids.

A wrathful part in him was oddly satisfied by the sight of her humiliation. The thought didn't comfort him very long, though, as he then noticed she apparently didn't seem to be suffering from this treatment. After a few visits in complete silence, she started to ask him softly, if there was anything she could do for him that would make his situation more bearable. More blankets, a tastier meal, she even suggested a bath. He replied to every single of her kind offerings with a cold glare. That, he noticed, made her shiver in pain every time. And only then, was the slight feeling of vengeance satisfying.

There were some nights, though, where the vengeful thoughts weren't enough to keep him warm, and where he wished he would've accepted the blankets. He was draping himself in what was left of his dignity to endure it.

¤¤¤

Edmure woke up gasping from a nightmare. His cold hands brushed away his dirty and flea-infested locks from his forehead. It felt burning hot on his frozen fingers. He reached for the clay jug for some fresh water but found it empty. He wouldn't have any before the morning, which was gods-know-how many hours away. He left himself fall back onto the moist floor, his burning skull slightly relieved by the hard coldness.

Edmure tried to remember if he had ever felt so weak and lonely. Even the most painful wounds he had received in battles were accompanied by some form of glory. And his comrades and kin had always been there for him, surrounding him, supporting him, trusting him.  
He had never have been so alone.

He couldn't have failed so hard. He couldn't have faulted so much that the Gods took it all from him and left him rot in this dungeon. What did he do so wrong that the Seven had to punish him this way ? If only he had been allowed to die a sword in hand, but the Warrior refused him even that.

He heard voices. Women's voices. The heat was suffocating. He was back at Riverrun. He recognized his room. There was a strong fire burning in the hearth and he was stuffed under the weight of a heavy quilt. He tried to get rid of the awfully warm cover, but he couldn't move. Next to the fireplace, two girls with auburn hair were arguing. Lysa protested that it was all Catelyn's fault while his older sister yelled back that if she didn't try to push her, the snowball wouldn't have hit their little brother. Their father tried to calm them down with his strong and strict voice; claiming that there was naught to be done but to leave Edmure in the care of their Maester.

He remembered a cold day of the winter he has known as a kid, when he slipped into the frozen river, ending a snowball fight abruptly. He had been stucked in his bed with a pneumonia for an entire week, awful pains piercing his chest and lungs, but even then...The squeaks of Lysa and Catelyn's gossips, their quick fights and their cheerful laughs...They were always there, beside his bed, distracting him from his aches. He was never allowed to be alone. Loneliness was the worst of pains for a Tully.

A strong cough shook his chest violently. Lysa, Catelyn, his room and Riverrun disappeared and he was once again back on the cold hard floor.

¤¤¤

He heard women's voices again. He prayed for being brought back at Riverrun once more, whether in a dream or in some sort of heaven.

“...how could you not see...dare not...if you lose him..."

He was pretty sure it wasn't either Cat or Lysa's voice that he was hearing. Could it be the voice of his mother? The mother he did not have the time to know.

A soft, - what he imagined to be a - motherly hand caressed his burning forehead, and a delicate fabric wiped the sweat from his cheeks. A few drowsy moments later, he felt the spicy hotness of a cataplasm on his chest, accompanied by soft and warm blankets. There was a pleasant chestnut scent floating about in the air. Those were his last thoughts before he drifted away again, to a blissful sleep free of nightmares.

He was ripped from his dreams once again by a violent cough. The soft hands and the calming voice were still here. They wrapped him in a warm embrace, and soon he felt his head being rested on a lap. When he stirred in pain, thin fingers ran down his hair and secured his head to ease the intake of a spoonful of something slimy and sugary. He endured the remedy, not without wincing, and remained there for what appeared a long moment. The gentle fingers and the spoon came back later, this time with a salty and stuffing - yet welcomed - gruel. His full stomach gave him enough strength to brave his fever, and finally to try and open his eyes. The light was dim yet bright enough to burn them. He caught a glimpse of the soft-handed-lady and noticed she didn't have auburn hair like him.

Strange, he thought. If he wasn't at Riverrun with his family, then why did it felt so much like home?

¤¤¤

He heard a song. It sounded like a lullaby. He never had or needed lullabies, but somehow it was familiar. It was also kind of sad. He managed to open his eyes. The morning light blinded him, but this time he kept them open. His body was still cramped by the fever, and none of his muscles were obeying him. He had just enough strength to turn his head in direction of the voice.

Finally, he recognized her. The long and brown hair where his fingers had once wandered. The chestnut perfume he had inebriated himself with. The big eyes, so quick to be glistened by tears as well as by tender gazes. The soft lips of muted protests, that which he had covered with as much kisses as he could, that gave him back the sweetest of smiles.

He recognized her well, now. The girl he had fallen for. The girl he had loved so much, for such a few hours. How could he have forgotten? That the reason he had felt so painfully betrayed was because she had once made him so happy.

She suddenly stopped playing, startled by his stare.  
\- I, I'm so sorry my lord, she apologized. I didn't want to wake you up, I, I tried to be quiet...  
He managed to answer her despite his sore throat :  
\- It's fine. Don't stop.  
She clumsily grabbed back the handle of her luth, tried to find some notes to play, then realized :  
\- I...The song was over, sire...I, I'm sorry...  
\- Then start again, he ordered. Or another one. More cheerful, if you know one.

She nodded timidly. She didn't dare to sing again, and settled for a cute little ballad on her lute. It was probably for the best, since she looked as if she was about to cry again.

As for him, he would've never have believed it, but he actually enjoyed listening to her. Focusing on the melody prevented him to revel in his regrets, his painful memories or his crushed dreams. And more importantly ; someone was there. Someone stayed by his side, someone didn't leave him alone. No matter how fleeting and short this moment would be, just for the length of the song, he was at peace.

¤¤¤

Roslin took care of him the next few days of his recovery. Suspicious, he had asked her while she was giving him his remedy :  
\- Is it you they charged to keep me alive or what ?  
She shook her head shyly.  
\- These idiots wouldn't even have noticed if I didn't...she confessed.  
Looks like he wasn't that valuable after all...What did he have left, if not his price as a hostage ? After she changed the poultice, he asked again :  
\- Then why are you giving yourself all that trouble ?  
She slightly blushed as she washed her hands in a basin.  
\- My...My place is with you. I am your wife...  
He replied with bitterness :  
\- You're married to a good-as-dead man with no lands and no power. If you had some common sense, you'd see your place is with your family.  
She clenched her feeble fists on her handkerchief.  
\- I...I don't want them to be my family. I know you don't trust me, and you're right to, my lord, I've made terrible mistakes but...I know I can become better than them.  
She was shaking like a leaf. She was obviously using all of her strenght to contain her tears. She ended bravely :  
\- Since my Lord didn't deign to take my life...It seems just fair that I dedicate my existence to him.  
She then quietly sobbed, modestly hiding her face in her delicate hands. It took him all the strenght in his cramped muscles to rise up from the heavy blankets and simply sit in front of her. He kindly put a hand on her shuddering shoulder, then reminded her :  
\- You don't have to call me that. I am not the lord of anything anymore.  
She sniffed, and retorted :  
\- You are mine.  
She then buried her face into his chest, while he gently held her body shaken by tears. She was crying the first time he had seen her. He wondered if her tears would stop flowing, one day.

 


End file.
